


Clarity

by jtspz1347



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-23 23:30:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18559297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jtspz1347/pseuds/jtspz1347
Summary: Jon had always been a bit of a germophobe, and Michael knew how to twist that fear. Luckily for Jon, Martin is there to pick up the pieces.





	1. Chapter 1

The first sign that things might go horribly wrong was a single email. Jon stared down at his phone in annoyance as he read the faux-sympathetic words of his landlord’s alert.

Dear Residents,  
I apologize for the inconvenience, but the water flow in your building has been disrupted. Please expect for the water to be shut off for a few hours this afternoon, and be advised that the current water is not safe for consumption.

Sure enough, when he turned the faucet in his kitchen, dark brown water came pouring out. The water hit the sink in such a way that a few drops sprayed onto his counter. He had meaning to get someone to fix that, but now, staring at the dark brown water on his countertop, he resolved to fix it as soon as possible. He went to wipe up the water, but something stopped him. He had the feeling that if he touched it, the water might stain him, and not just on the surface of his skin. Jon would not say that he was afraid of germs or dirt, he was just a cleanly man, a man with clear convictions on where dirt and mud ought to be-- outside, away from him.  
Leaving the counter as it was, he began to busy himself with the day’s work. He stopped at the small bakery down the street first, with tables shaded by blue umbrellas. There was no possible way he would be able to use his own kitchen without thinking of the brown water droplets on his countertop. He wasn't sure why this particular incident was bothering him so badly, but an unnerving feeling crawled across his skin and through his veins.  
The sun outside was bright and cheerful and the day was cool, a welcome change from his gloomy apartment. With the errands that he had to run, and leads to follow up on, he soon forgot about the unwelcome water in his flat.  
When he returned that evening, he turned on the water, but once again the water was dark brown, nearly black. He recoiled on reflex, this morning’s disquiet now a sense of mounting dread. He considered for a moment getting a hotel room, but he felt ridiculous the moment after he considered it. Instead, he simply walked out of the kitchen, hungry but unwilling to cook anything. He thought about taking a shower, but he assumed the water there was the same, and he didn't want to feel even more ridiculous than he already did.  
He went to bed with the black water still on his countertop.  
The morning came and went, and while he busied himself with work, the water was still echoing in his mind so much that he hesitated before making himself a cup of coffee. No way to know if the water used to make it would suddenly go dark in the coffee pot, and god forbid he drink that.  
It made it so much more a relief when he received a ping on his phone, an email from his landlord.

Dear Jon,  
The water in your flat has been fixed. Please, enjoy your new water system.

If it seemed odd, Jon didn’t mind, and he rushed home to see the clean water flowing from his taps. He didn’t understand why it was so important to him to see it with his own eyes, to see that it was clear, and the dark water gone. There was a note on his door, with a slightly crooked smiley face and the words Thank You For Your Patience! scrawled across it.  
The flat was quiet, and for a moment Jon had to blink his eyes several times to focus.  
Something was wrong. He knew this, but he pressed on anyway. He needed to see the water, to make sure it was clear, to feel like there wasn’t something in the water, waiting for him to get too close. The unnerving feeling he had had for the past two days was closing over his throat, and he needed to be able to breathe.  
He turned on the tap to find a clear, steady stream of water, and felt his knees nearly buckle in relief. Happily, he filled a glass and sipped it as he wet a towel, washing away the dark spots of water on his counter. They left a bit of a stain, but nothing permanent, he hoped.  
Still, even cleaning his counters had made him feel dirty, and he went to take an early shower and turn in for the night. He felt cleaner than he usually did, and content, stepping out of the shower and changing into a well-worn pair of pajamas.  
He was climbing into his bed with a book when his phone dinged. The email made his stomach turn.

Dear Resident,  
Thank you for your patience. The water system will now be turned off, and all water systems will be repaired presently.

He couldn’t breathe, and he didn’t dare look at anything besides his phone. His hand caught his eye, however, and he saw it was streaked with filth.  
His eyes shot up to the ceiling and he decided that not moving, not looking, was the best idea. He didn’t know how long he had sat there before he heard the laughter that wasn’t laughter.  
“Hello, Archivist. I thought we might have some fun.”  
He felt the inside of his skin, his tongue, and the space behind his eyes begin to pulse as if something were writhing underneath. He opened his mouth to scream, but all that came out was a croak.  
“Hush now, Archivist. Who knows how long you have until you’re just like that impatient, infernal filth.”  
Michael's voice was like a whisper in both of his ears at once, speaking almost simultaneously but a moment off from one another. It was disorienting, so real that he thought he might go mad, and he struggled to his feet. He could feel things undulating in the soles of his feet and he wanted nothing more than to rip them out. He knew it was a trick, that Michael lies, he always lies, but he also knew that he couldn’t hold on under this mental siege.  
He made his way to the bathroom; it felt like hours of half crawling, half dragging himself. He kept telling himself that what had disturbed him so much was Michael, twisting his mind, but he felt so heavy that it might not have ever mattered in the first place.  
He needed to see his own face. He needed to see in the mirror what Michael had or hadn’t done to him. And when he reached his bathroom, pulling himself up to the mirror above the sink, he saw absolutely nothing. His reflection was gone; he couldn’t tell Michael’s world from reality. And with this, he let out a cry and fell to the ground, too weak to stand anymore. He tried to catch himself on the way down, but he hit his head and all went black.


	2. Chapter 2

Martin was just leaving, he promised Elias with a tinge of nervousness in his voice. It was late: ten o’clock. He was almost afraid that Elias would accuse him of being up to something.  
Instead, Elias just handed him a piece of paper with an address on it. “I need you to go here. Immediately.”  
Martin waited until Elias had completely removed his hand before nervously taking the paper. “Who am I looking for?” he asked.  
“Jon.”  
“Jon?”  
“He’s… gone dark. I can’t see him. But what I did see…” Whatever he had seen had given Elias pause. “Michael was there.”  
Martin felt himself shiver involuntarily. “Tell me what to do.”  
Elias shook his head. “All I can say is to watch the water. Make sure it’s clear. And hurry. Our Archivist won’t be easily replaceable.”  
And so Martin did what he asked, leaving the darkened building with a sense of mounting dread.

When Martin arrived at Jon’s flat, the rooms were warm and airy, but the hallways were quiet. The light filtering through the windows seemed to twist and turn. Not in the way that dust swirls as its edges imperceptibly catch the light, but the light itself seemed to turn inwards, watching him. He glanced nervously at his phone, at the directions Elias had sent him.  
He made his way into the kitchen first, turning the taps with deliberate movements. There seemed to be nothing wrong with the water, not that Elias had told him what exactly to look for, but he recorded a video of the water with his phone, just in case. He watched it twice, nervously checking for anything he might have mis-seen before sending it to Elias. The counters themselves were streaked with filthy water, as if Jon had tried cleaning with mud. He resolved to clean it later.  
He heard stirring movement from the bathroom, and a soft groan of something unrecognizable. He fought to keep his panic under control— Jon had, as everyone knew, been through worse than this, if their boss was to be believed. He went into that lighted, slightly inclining hallway and found his way towards the noise.  
The bathroom door was slightly open, and called out softly before entering the bathroom. “Jon? Are you alright? Elias told me to head down right away when he—“  
Martin stopped short only a couple of steps inside the room as the door swung inwards, tilting slightly just as the light outside did. Jon was slumped over the bath, his chest rising gently and his head tilted back against the tiled wall as if he were sleeping. But when Martin looked closer, the back of Jon’s head was bloody, and one of his arms was twisted badly, as if he had fallen and only had his arm to break the fall. Encrusted around his eyes and down his cheeks like tears was a dark brown substance, and it leaked from his nose and mouth. It looked like dirt, or blood, or worse.  
For one brilliant moment of white-hot terror, Martin thought of being buried in hot, choking mud, and sludge spilling both out of him and into him as he tried desperately to breathe. Thoughts of what exactly could have caused this flew by, a thousand possibilities, until he came to rest his mind of the face of Jane Prentiss. He was not looking at Jon now, but at his hands, and he could not remember if the movement he had seen briefly on Jon’s face was a long, silver worm or a trick of the light. For a long moment he couldn’t move, and it felt like the bottom of his stomach was filled with stone.  
At last he looked back at Jon, to see his face was whole, and almost peaceful despite the substance invading him. He could have sworn he heard a laugh that was not quite a laugh as he fell to his knees, to wake Jon, and the small bathroom felt it righted itself in a way he had not noticed was so wrong before. The last of Michael’s “cruel joke” as Elias had so put it, with a smug smile that Martin hated him for.  
He wiped what he now saw was dirty water from Jon’s face, and slowly Jon began to stir. Belatedly, Martin realized he should have used a handkerchief rather than his hands; he knew Jon’s feelings on his personal space.  
But, as Jon began to open his eyes, he only sat up, their faces inches away from each other.  
“Martin? Martin, oh god. It’s Michael, he was here, and—“  
“Jon! Jon. It’s alright, it’s alright,” Martin stammered. He suddenly felt a wave of awkwardness as he realized that Jon had used his unbroken arm to grab ahold of in his urgency to warn him. Jon’s hand was warm. He moved to stand, away from Jon, away from his hands. “I’ll make you a cup of tea, if you’re feeling alright to stay on your own for just a moment.”  
But Jon’s grip on his wrist tightened, and Martin couldn’t tell if this closeness was born from fear or comfort. “Stay. Just for a moment. I am... so tired.”  
Jon’s head tilted back towards the tiled wall, and he didn’t seem to notice the gash on the back of it. Martin was content to sit with him until he realized his feet, tucked under him as he had fallen to his knees, would soon begin to cramp.  
“Erm, Jon, do you mind if I..?” He gestured to indicate making himself more comfortable.  
“What?” He said as his eyes focused on Martin again. “Oh yes. Go on.”  
And as Martin moved to put his own back against the tiled wall, Jon let go of his wrist. He felt a wave of disappointment until a moment when he felt Jon’s head rest gently on his shoulder. He wanted to look at him, but he didn’t dare. What Martin felt now was unimportant in the wake of Michael’s cruel joke.  
It seemed like hours that he sat there, feeling Jon move closer and closer to him as he fell back asleep. He felt guilty for feeling comfortable, warm, and safe, but he let it be.  
The next thing that Martin was aware of was Jon’s voice, smaller than usual, but becoming increasingly closer to its usual annoyed and put-upon state.  
“Martin? Martin? Martin... I can’t move. You’ve got me pinned.”  
Martin was blinking the bleariness out of his eyes when he realized what Jon was talking about. His arm closest to Jon had somehow crept around Jon’s shoulders; Jon must have come to rest on his chest since said arm was holding him tightly, keeping Jon in place.  
“Martin!”  
Martin made a sound somewhere between an embarrassed squeak and a shouted apology, and immediately shoved Jon away. The movement, unfortunately, was too strong, and Jon, still weak, smacked into the hard edge of the bath.  
“MARTIN!”  
If Jon had been slightly annoyed before, now he was thunderous. Well, as thunderous as one could be looking as small and frail as Jon did in that moment. It shocked Martin to see how tired Jon looked, exhaustion hanging about him that couldn’t have just come around with Michael’s torment. It looked deeper, and almost sad.  
“Martin,” Jon said again, his voice a bit strained but trying to contain his annoyance once again. “I could do with that cup of tea now, if you don’t mind.” He accentuated the words ‘if you don’t mind’ in the same way he would when telling Tim to, well, to put it nicely, to go work at his own desk.  
Martin scrambled to his feet, nearly taking the towel rack down with him as he grabbed it to steady himself. He was trying desperately to leave the situation he just seemed to be escalating more and more with each passing moment.  
“Right! I’ll be back in a moment!”  
Once in the kitchen, he bustled around getting everything together at once. First, he scrubbed the counters down, though the stains didn’t seem to go anywhere. The tea-making itself was haphazard— he grabbed whatever he could first find to make, and nearly scalded himself on the hot kettle twice. He chose Jon’s favorite mug, forest green with a few dots of yellow on it. Basira had given it to him to make his new flat seem more of a home, and it seems it must have had the intended effect.  
He was walking back to the bathroom, mug in one hand and phone in the other, texting Basira to bemoan his painfully awkward situation, when he nearly ran face-first into Jon again. He seemed to be standing straight, at least, as he struggled out of the bathroom, and Jon’s dark eyes glared up at him for nearly bowling him over. They softened when they saw the mug of tea, however, and Jon took it, grateful for the warmth. Martin babbled something about wanting to bring Jon his favorite mug, and Jon smiled a tight smile, as if he had realized he was putting on anything but his usual airs. He moved to a well-work armchair and sat, while Martin perched on the arm of the sofa, so intent on hovering that he nearly forgot to exhale.  
Neither of them spoke for a while. The only sounds were Jon, sipping his tea, and the slowly returning sounds of bird calls, the wind, and the traffic outside.  
When they did speak, it was both at once.  
“How did you—?”  
“Are you feeling a bit—?”  
There was a momentary battle of their manners; Jon’s distant but polite gestures for Martin to speak and Martin’s stammers of “Please, I don’t mind, go on.”  
Jon sighed, and let Martin win the battle.  
“How are you feeling?”  
Jon sighed, looking as uncomfortable as ever with any attention directed towards his well-being. “I’ve been better. But, thanks to you, I feel a bit more... secure.”  
“Your arm, it’s not broken?”  
“Ah, no. Just very badly bruised, thank you.”  
They sat in silence for a moment again before Jon broke it.  
“How did you know?”  
“To find you? Well, Elias sent me off here right away when he realized that he couldn’t see you, not at all, after he was so sure that that thing... that Michael was here. Course, I didn’t have your address, but Basira knew since you’re not really... erm... subtle with your secrets. She said actually that it was almost like you wanted to be found, and so I came as soon as I could, found you, and that was that!”  
Jon furrowed his brow a bit, before clarifying.  
“I meant, how did you know that this was my favorite mug?”  
Martin flushed red as he tried to desperately revise the reason in his head, so that he wouldn’t tell Jon about the times he had spent watching him, in those few and far between hours where he was off-guard, content, with hands curled around the forest-green ceramic with yellow dots. When he spoke his voice was higher than normal, and almost pleading for Jon to take him at face value. “Basira told me?”  
It would do for now, since Jon was finishing his tea, and his head was slowly sinking down towards his chest, his eyes closing. Martin rambled a bit more, but, seeing how close to sleep Jon was, he quieted.  
“Do you need some help?”  
“Hmm?”  
“Do you need some help, getting to your bed, I mean?”  
“Are you flirting with me, Martin?”  
Jon’s tone was exhausted but playful, and almost certainly a joke brought on by his mildly delirious state. But it still sucked the air out of Martin’s lungs, and the room was dead silent for a moment too long.  
“Well,” Jon finally said brusquely, “I will see you in the morning.”  
Martin leapt to his feet, but too little too late. “Jon, do you need help? You don’t look steady, at least let me take your mug.” Jon pushed him away, but his hands were gentle, not angry. He seemed embarrassed, almost. He gave his cup to Martin, and their fingers brushed for a moment. Then, slowly, he made his way to the first bedroom on the right.  
Martin was about to sleep on the floor, as the couch was too small, when Jon’s voice floated back towards him from the bedroom.  
“Martin? There’s a smaller bedroom next to the bathroom, if you want it. I didn’t need it, but the landlady said a two-bedroom was all she had on short notice and...” the voice trailed off, as if Jon was unsure of what to say next. “It’s there if you need it.”  
Martin ended up sleeping on the floor, as he wasn’t sure if he would ever be able to sleep next to that awful bathroom, but the sentiment was well-appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

Jon awoke with a start when he smelled something unusual to his morning routine— the smell of something burning. His limbs felt too heavy to lift at all, and his eyes shot open, casting about the room for any clues as to what, or who, might be attempting to kill him this time.   
It was then that he heard a mess of swears coming from the kitchen, faster and more tenacious than he would expect, but undoubtedly Martin.  
Martin.  
Though he hadn’t even sat up yet, his body sank even deeper into the comfort of his bed with an internal, embarrassed groan. Martin, who had been been only doing his job (quite well, thank god) of saving him and looking after his health when Jon, the fool that he was, had not only fell asleep on his chest, but made a joke about Martin trying to get him into bed. Martin, who probably had a black smudge of burnt toast crumbs under the laugh lines of his eyes, and was swearing at the pop of bacon on his bare arms. Martin, who most likely looked rather handsome even just in his undershirt and dress pants, having crumpled up his button-down to use as a pillow the night before.  
He got up slowly, and felt no worse for wear from his latest brush with Michael, save for a bad taste in his mouth. He was still dressed in the filthy clothes he had on the night before, with dirty streaks staining them from the water on his skin. He changed absent-mindedly; while he prided himself on his appearance, he had little ‘fashion sense’ and doubted Martin did either. Still he stared into the mirror for several minutes, brushing his hair into an acceptably tame state.   
He was about to open the door and step into the hallway when he paused, and grabbed a larger long-sleeved shirt from his dresser. Georgie had given it to him since many of his clothes had been lost in the confusion of the multiple moves he had had since Jorgen Leitner’s death. It had been too big on him, but he had a feeling it would fit Martin just right, and he would appreciate the protection from pops of grease. He fussed with his hair once more, and opened the door.  
There was no more swearing from the kitchen; there were in fact no more words, only a quiet, contented humming. Sunlight filtered through the windows and lit up the side of Martin’s face as he worked; unmarked except a small black smudge of toast crumbs near the laugh lines of his eye. He had never realized how broad Martin’s shoulders were, since the shirts he wore were always a little too large around his chest to make up for a stockier waist and large arms. He cleared his throat when he realized that he was staring, making sure that Martin couldn’t turn around and catch him at it before he was prepared.  
Martin’s face was bright when he turned around, and he smiled a genuine smile when he saw Jon. “Good morning! I didn’t know what you usually ate for breakfast, and I didn’t want to leave you go get anything. There was this neat little shop, you know, the one with the blue umbrellas out front, I think they look quite nice, so I thought to head over there, but again, I would rather stay here until you woke up.” He continued on like this for a small while, turning and chattering on while buttering toast and making finishing touches on breakfast. Jon watched him, and could feel a slight smile taking over his face. He tried to keep his face neutral when Martin turned to him with a plate full of food, and sat down at his usual spot at the kitchen table.  
Martin placed the plates down, and turned to get two glasses of water from the tap. He seemed to think better of it though, pausing with the glass under the faucet, and decided instead to pull out the last of the orange juice.  
As they sat, eating, Martin’s phone buzzed once, twice, and a third time in quick succession. He shot Jon an apologetic glance and mumbled “Basira...” before ducking out to take the call. The air outside was cool, and Martin shivered when he opened the door. Jon realized the shirt was still in his lap, and called him over.  
“Martin, I think this might fit you.” He said, not daring to look up at his breakfast companion.   
“Oh!” The voice was soft, surprised. “Thank you.” Martin took the shirt and went again outside, before closing the door gently behind him.

“Basira, please, you cannot tell the others!” Martin hissed through gritted teeth, shivering out in the outside air. Jon had given him a shirt that would protect him from the cold, but the thought of wearing one of Jon’s shirts made him dizzy.  
Basira’s voice came through his phone, a bit tinny and very elated, “You’ve been talking my ear off about Jon for weeks Martin! Course, I wouldn’t tell the others, not Tim or Elias at least. I’ll leave you to tell Melanie, but you got to tell her.”  
Martin thought his voice must have pitched up two octaves, “Basira! We haven’t-- Jon hasn’t-- Nothing’s even happened!”  
Basira’s laugh was deep and warm. “But listen, he’s alright, right? This whole ordeal with… Michael? He’s going to come back to the Archives?”  
“Yes. Yes he’s alright I think. I don’t know exactly what went on yet but I’m going to ask him this morning after breakfast.”  
“Alright… let me know when you’re coming back, yeah?  
“Thanks Basira, will do.”  
They said their goodbyes and Martin let out a long sigh before burying his face in his hands and groaning. He was already struggling with his feelings for Jon without Basira putting more ideas in his head. But she had reminded him of the next important part of being here with Jon: he had to find out what happened, and hopefully get a statement. 

 

In the end, he didn’t ask. He couldn’t; Jon’s face blanched immediately at the name ‘Michael’ and his heart ached for Jon half in pity and half in past terror. They instead worked on ways around Jon’s total aversion to water. He was already getting thirsty, but couldn’t bring a glass to his mouth without gagging. Eventually, Martin would go out to the market to get bottled water. It would work, for the moment.


	4. Chapter 4

It was another three days before Jon could look at the bath. He was able to drink from bottles, if Martin would help him make sure they were sealed properly before he drank from them. If Martin was losing his patience, he didn’t show any signs. He agreed with Jon that it was important to be cautious after the whole ordeal.  
The bath—the shower— was different. He was desperate to get clean of the last remnants of the filthy water in the only way he knew: a long, hot shower.  
He was feeling particularly normal again, and even thought for a moment that it was stupid to be afraid of water. He resolved to face the final fear that day, and when he and Martin had finished dinner, he entered the bathroom and turned on the shower.  
It wasn’t instantaneous. Jon felt completely normal taking off his clothes, and even tested the water on his wrist to see if it was hot enough.   
This was the mistake that would snap him out of his bravery. For a moment he thought he could see a streak of brown water running down his palm to bury itself in his skin. He jerked his hand back, but the damage was done. He would have to touch the water again to turn off the shower. His mirror began to fog up with steam.  
Jon found it harder to breathe. He knew, in his mind, that Martin had checked and double checked the water running from the shower the day before, but he felt Michael’s smile in the clean steam of the bathroom. His voice felt faint, and far away when he called.   
“Martin?”   
No answer. He called more urgently.   
“Martin!”  
It was as if the terror of his voice had been heard and Martin was at his side instantly.   
“Jon? Are you alright?”  
Jon opened his mouth, but, immediately snapped it shut, thinking of the steam that swirled around the room and how easily it could get inside him. He realized, as if he was watching himself from outside his body, that he was only in his boxers, and he could not tell if the redness in Martin’s face was from the steam or his near-nakedness.   
Finally, he managed, “The water, Martin. The water.” Martin turned the taps off immediately. He was sure the water was scalding by now, as he had intended to scrub his skin raw, but Martin didn’t say a word of complaint as the hot water hit his hand.   
“Alright Jon. One thing at a time. No worries.” He said, still red-faced, still not looking at Jon as he handed him a towel. “You can go quite a bit without a shower, I know because of that one bet that Tim and Sasha had, our first year at the Archives. Do you remember? He didn’t bathe for a month.” The one-sided conversation continued as they left the bathroom, and Jon suddenly wanted Martin to look at him, to stop talking and look at him. He realized that Martin had taken hold of his hand to lead him out of the bathroom. It didn’t feel condescending, or as if Martin was merely putting up with his pleas to get him away from the water. It felt, instead, natural, and kind.   
He placed his hand on Martin’s shoulder.   
“Martin,”  
Martin wasn’t looking at him, but chuckled softly as he turned, saying, “You know, you’ve said my name more this week than I think you ever—“   
Jon wouldn’t let him finish his quip. He took Martin’s turning face in his hands, and kissed him. Martin felt clean, and he smelled clean, but in that moment, Jon would not have minded even if he wasn’t. He wasn’t kissing him because he felt clean, but because he felt like home. Jon’s kiss took them both by surprise. Their noses were a bit squashed together, and Martin was hunched over in an way that couldn’t be comfortable.   
Neither of them minded these facts.  
When they broke apart, Jon looked at Martin, his gaze steady though tinged with anxiety. He moved his gaze from Martin’s lips, but couldn’t quite meet his eyes, and he imagined Martin like he had seen him that first morning, with toast crumbs under his eye.  
They said nothing, but the silence was calm. Jon wanted to kiss him again, but felt as if the pieces of himself were only just now coming back together, and without the right words he might fly apart.  
“If you wanted to, you could sleep in my bed tonight.” When he said this, Martin looked up into his eyes, and he realized with a sense of surprise that Martin had been staring at his half-naked body. He felt too warm and couldn’t help himself from giving Martin a small smirk.  
Martin’s smile was brilliant, and a little wry. “Jon, are you flirting with me?”  
His own words from the first night Martin had rescued him echoed in his ears and he smiled brilliantly in return.  
But he said nothing; his only response was to walk to the door of his bedroom, and beckon Martin to follow him.


	5. Chapter 5

Martin awoke the next morning to the gentle sounds of rain. He rolled over in a bed that was, for a moment, unfamiliar. As he did, his eyes fell on Jon. He was sleeping peacefully, and Martin laughed to himself as he realized that Jon slept the same way he carried himself: he slept almost perfectly still, on his back, with both arms not askew but peaceful at either side. Besides the times when he was swept up in paranoia, when Jon was sitting in his chair at work, he was almost always sitting with perfect posture. His desk was, for the most part, clean, and his voice was always clear. There would always be one small thing out of place, however. Usually it was the collar of his dress shirt, a bit rumpled, and Martin would have to hold himself back from fixing it affectionately. Now, it was the way Jon’s head tilted to the side, and his quiet snores.  
The night before, when Jon had kissed him, he had been on edge from the moment it began. He had been waiting for Jon to push him away, for him to cry out in shock with some realization that what he had done was some mistake. That some new trick had made him think that Martin was more, or better, than he was.  
But he had not. Jon had, in reality, pulled away from him with no shock or horror, only happiness. Martin had wanted to take hold of him again, but instead he only looked at every detail of Jon’s face, his chest, his arms. When Jon spoke it startled him, and Martin realized he hadn’t been just looking, but staring. The slight smirk on Jon’s face said he had noticed it as well.  
“If you wanted to, you could sleep in my bed tonight.”  
It took a few moments for the words to register.  
“Jon, are you flirting with me?” The words came to him before he could stop them, but Jon didn’t seem to mind. He merely walked over to the bedroom and beckoned.  
The inside of Jon’s bedroom was dim, but not discomforting. He closed the door, and Jon was suddenly too close for him to ignore, reaching up to touch his face. Martin would have let him, would have let him caress his cheek or grip the back of his neck.  
That night in particular, however, nothing of the sort would happen. As Jon reached for him, he hesitated, staring at his hand as if it had reached up unbidden.  
“It feels… as if it is still on me,” he murmured as an apology. Martin wanted to protest, to say that even if there was something to his fear, Martin didn’t mind, he didn’t need protecting, and he would cross a thousand avatars like Michael to make Jon feel safe. But he understood, and stayed silent. In the end they slept side by side, but separate, taking comfort in being together above all else.  
Jon eventually woke up, breaking Martin from his memories of the night before. He seemed surprised to see Martin for only a moment, and all surprise melted away as he woke more. He took Martin’s hand and, moving it, he managed to wedge himself into Martin’s arms, with Jon’s head on Martin’s chest. He was sure Jon could feel his laughter as he realized what was happening, and he said, “You know, you could have just asked. I’m sure you would be more comfortable.”  
“I know,” Jon replied, “but I just wanted to be closer.”  
It was enough, a contentment. He knew that Jon’s fear now came in rolling waves, and would enjoy this while it lasted, before Jon felt he had to distance himself again. They stayed like this until an impatient knocking echoed through the flat. Jon tensed, and so did Martin, and neither of them knew whether to relax or not when they heard Tim’s voice, muffled by the door.  
“Jon?”  
The two men scrambled out of bed as Martin leapt up to answer the door. They spent a minute quietly and wildly debating on who should answer the door: Jon, who was certainly not about to be seen when he seemed fragile, least of all by Tim, or Martin, who… well. Martin wasn’t supposed to be there at all, and he was sure of the grief he’d get about it even if Tim didn’t catch on.  
"For Christ's sake, Jon, it's raining out here!" Tim's voice was impatient.  
In the end, Martin went to answer the door. There was a loud bout of swearing, and a clatter that sounded like the sickening familiar sound of a tape recorder as Martin grabbed the keys, and as he opened the door, Tim was typing furiously on his phone. He started to speak before even looking up.  
“Look, Jon, I know you’re our boss and all, but Elias can’t see whatever it is you’re doing here, and I don’t want to spend all my time running errands for either of you. So if you could--”  
He stopped short seeing Martin and a strange look overtook his face. His voice formed a question disguised as outrage or annoyance, he couldn’t tell.  
“Martin?”  
Martin smiled nervously before belatedly realizing how much worse the situation must look than it was. His hair was rumpled, he was clearly in pajamas, and it dawned on him that he was still wearing one of Jon’s shirts. Tim, however, was not truly an asshole, and as much as he hated Jon, he got along fine with Martin for the most part.  
“Hey Tim,” he managed to reply weakly, “did you need something?”  
“I. I have some statements from Elias and a tape recorder.” He said, and indicated that, as always, the tape recorder was on.  
“So, you’re here helping Jon with work?” he said, while at the same time pointing strongly to Jon’s door and mouthing ‘Him?!’ indignantly.  
“Oh, yeah, Jon hurt his arm but still has statements to get through. Not much time for sick leave, what with trying to save the world and all.” He replied while throwing Tim a sharp look. “He’s very nice to spend time with outside of work, not that you would know.”  
Tim shrugged, apparently giving up for the moment. Martin knew he would have to give more details later, but Tim was genuinely a nice man, just frustrated with both Jon and Elias. “If you like helping him, whatever makes you happy I suppose.”  
Tim turned, and Martin felt a wave of relief that the conversation went smoothly. He watched Tim walk to the street and went to go back inside when he heard Tim shout out his name. He turned to see Tim give him two thumbs up and a mildly lewd gesture. It was daylight after all, and Tim behaved himself even when being crass. Martin smiled a bit before yelling back “Get back to work, Tim!” and waving a short goodbye.  
Coming back into the flat, he found Jon still in bed, and motioning to him to get back in bed as well. As he did so, Jon moved to kiss him, and Martin let him. It was long, slow, and sweet, and Jon pushed him back so he was leaning against the headboard of the bed. He barely registered when Jon moved to sit in his lap, straddling him, wanting to kiss him further. It was warm, and his hands moved to Jon’s hips to hold him. They broke apart, for only a moment, but in that moment Martin looked at Jon and realized that as badly as he wanted this moment, it wasn’t the time. Jon was disheveled, still exhausted, and still dirty because of the incident the night before.  
“Jon,” he murmured as Jon went to kiss his neck.  
“Jon,” he said stronger, “not now.”  
Jon pulled back, startled.  
“I’m sorry, I thought… I don’t know what I thought, I thought that you wanted…”  
Martin looked in his eyes and shook his head. Jon looked away, but didn’t move. He was so still it seemed he might shatter.  
“Hey,” he called softly, drawing Jon’s eyes back to his face. “It isn’t that I don’t want to, Jon. But look at us. You’re exhausted, and you’ve been through so much. Please, just give it… us… a little time, for you to heal.”  
He put his hand on Jon’s face, and Jon leaned into his palm in contentment, just slightly. “Besides, Jon,” he said with a wry smile, “you haven’t showered in days.”  
Jon laughed a bit at this, and kissed him once before climbing off of him. “You’re right. I should definitely shower.”  
Jon opened the door to the hallway, grabbing a towel on the way out. He paused, and turned back to Martin. “Despite what we just said,” he began, “I was wondering if you might want to come with me.” He shifted, clearly a bit uncomfortable but earnest. “For both practical and other reasons.”  
Martin sat back up and nodded softly. “Whatever you need,” he said, and Jon smiled softly in return.

It was gentle. Jon and Martin had spent several minutes on the floor of the bathroom, Jon breathing hard, but not in as much terror as the night before. Eventually, Martin convinced him the water was alright by stripping off most of his clothes and sitting in the shower, showing Jon the clear droplets on his skin. They then sat in the water for so long that Martin was afraid that the water would run cold, Jon’s back against his chest and Martin’s arms wrapped around him. When he was calm, they stood up, and Martin let Jon scrub his skin, helping him only when he couldn’t reach or when he began to scrub so deeply that his skin turned an angry red.  
When Martin helped him wash his neck and back, he couldn’t help but leave kisses when he was done. They were sweet, and short, and Jon shivered with each. This was enough, for now, and Martin went back to merely watching, and occasionally placing his hand on Jon when he would pause, tensing with anxiety as if he had forgotten whether he could trust his eyes or not.   
In the end, it took so long that the water did indeed run cold, but Jon was safe and content. There was only one thing left to do to finish the physical steps of putting the ordeal behind him. Martin brought out the tape recorder, which had mysteriously kept recording the whole time.  
“Statement of Jonathan Simms, regarding an encounter with the entity called Michael.”


End file.
